UC  SOUTHERN  REGI 

£<  OOO  c 

3NAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

oo)oo  moo  « 

HE  REVOLT 
I  HE  ESCAPE 

Y  VILLIERS 

E  L'ISLE  ADAM 


TRANSLATED 
3Y  THERESA 
BARCLAY 


Published 

by 

Charles  H.Sergei 

Company 

Chicago 

1901 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


UU~?  sl  y  / 1_ 


MODERN 
PLAYS 


EDITED   BY 

R.  BRIMLEY  JOHNSON 

AND 

N.  ERICHSEN 


Authorised  Translation 
All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  REVOLT 

AND 

THE  ESCAPE 

BY  VILLIERS  DE  LISLE  ADAM 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

BY  THERESA  BARCLAY 


-*    •     t 


*      • 


I         »•    «     •      *  ■ 


,     *      •     i  « 

1  -  ■ 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES  H.  SERGEL  COMPANY 

1901 


<  I  I 


247£ 
V7//?3H 


INTRODUCTION 

Villiers  de  l'Lsle  Adam,  although  owing  his  extraction 
to  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  Brittany,  and  in  spite  of 
his  exaggerated  family  pride,  was  the  true  type  of  the 
Bohemian.  His  intellectual  affinities,  therefore,  naturally 
drew  him  towards  those  other — then  Bohemians,  the 
abused  Parnassiens,  whom  he  rivalled  in  his  unbending 
hostility  to  the  current  taste.  Though  welcomed  as  a 
coming  star  even  by  such  men  as  Francois  Copp^e,  Sully 
Prud'homme,  Catulle  Mendez,  and  Alphonse  Daudet, 
his  genius  did  not  attain  the  development  warranted  by 
its  great  and  rare  qualities.  This  was  chiefly  due  to  his 
want  of  method  and  even  horror  of  directing  his  life 
according  to  the  rules  of  common  sense,  of  that  common 
sense  of  which  Tribulat  Bonhomet  his  favourite  character 
says : — 

"  Let  us  bow  our  heads  before  this  almighty  common 
sense  which  from  century  to  century  lays  down  new  sets 
of  laws,  but  whose  essence  is  to  hate  the  very  name  of 
soul.  Let  us  salute  as  enlightened  folk,  this  common 
sense,  which,  as  it  passes,  insults  the  mind  that  traced 
the  path  it  follows." 

Villiers  was  deeply  influenced  by  Baudelaire.  His 
kinsman  M.  Pontavice  de  Heussey,  who  has  told  with 
kindly  sympathy  the  story  of  his  constant  struggle  with 
material  want  and  yet  indifference  to  comfort,  and  of  his 

v 


4Q 

FRENCH 


INTRODUCTION 

eccentricities  and  pride,  thinks  this  influence  was  not 
altogether  to  his  advantage.  "It  developed  in  him  a 
taste  for  deliberate  exaggeration  and  mystification.  His 
genius,  naturally  clear  and  luminous,  became  wrapped 
in  a  cloudy,  fantastical  imagery  and  in  obscure  and 
superfine  affectations,  which  often  spoil  his  work  and 
perplex  the  reader."  Premonitions,  mystic  and  super- 
natural agencies  do  indeed  occupy  a  large  place  in  his 
writings. 

The  two  short  pieces  forming  this  volume  are  among 
Villiers'  best  and  most  suggestive  work.  Though  short 
and  simple  in  construction,  they  deal  with  two  of  the 
greatest  problems  of  modern  civilisation.  L Evasion  was 
played  at  M.  Antoine's  Theatre  libre  in  1887,  among  the 
first  pieces  of  his  "  new  school."  It  not  only  contains  a 
powerful  and  dramatic  situation,  but  it  is  full  of  suggestive 
incidents.  La  Revoke  is  an  essentially  modern  drama. 
It  appeared  in  1870,  more  than  twenty  years  before  the 
question  of  the  relations  of  the  sexes  had  become,  in 
France,  the  burning  one  it  is  now.  After  five  perform- 
ances at  the  Vaudeville  in  Paris,  it  was  withdrawn  by 
order  of  the  Censure  on  the  same  grounds  no  doubt  as 
those  on  which  much  other  artistic  and  conscientious 
work  of  that  time  was  persecuted.  Witness  the  ridiculous 
lawsuit  against  Flaubert  for  the  authorship  of  Madame 
Bovary  and  the  condemnation  of  Baudelaire.  The 
critics,  however,  gave  it  no  quarter  either,  and  as 
for  the  public  they  had  not  yet  been  educated  by  M. 
M.  Antoine  and  Lugne-Poe  to  grasp  the  import  of  the 
inner  tragedy,  of  the  conflict  of  conscience  and  tendency 
witli  which  Ibsen's  dramas  have  now  made  Parisians 
familiar. 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 

Between  La  Re'volte  and  one  of  Ibsen's  most  popular 
plays,  The  Dolls  House,  there  is  a  strong  family  likeness. 
Both  deal  with  the  same  problem,  both  heroines  propound 
the  same  theories  of  self-duty  and  both  leave  home, 
husband  and  children  with  the  same  object  of  leading 
thenceforth  a  worthier  existence  in  dreamland.  Elisabeth 
returns  after  a  few  hours  with  a  dread  of  the  loneliness 
of  the  cold,  dark  night,  and  the  discovery  that  her  self- 
dependency,  her  aptitude  for  the  appreciation  of  her  own 
inner  life  is  gone,  in  other  words,  that  her  character  has 
been  tainted  by  contact  with  her  husband's  materialism. 
Her  freedom  had  come  when  she  was  no  longer  fit  to 
make  use  of  it.  In  The  Dolls'  House  we  are  left  in 
doubt  as  to  the  ulterior  fate  of  Nora,  though  Ibsen 
does  not  exclude  reconciliation  and  the  presence  of 
Nora's  sensible  and  well-meaning  friend  points  that 
way. 

But  while  the  subject  is  the  same,  La  Revoke  and  The 
Dolls  House  are  developed  on  entirely  different  plans. 
Ibsen's  work  is  that  of  a  master  of  dramatic  construc- 
tion. Villiers,  essentially  a  dreamer  and  a  poet,  was 
indifferent  to  the  stage  effect  and  would  have  considered 
it  beneath  him  to  make  an  effort  to  please  the  popular 
taste.  Since  its  first  failure,  La  Revoke  has  been 
put  on  the  Paris  stage  now  and  again  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  a  small  group  of  faithful  admirers.  The  recent 
representations,  however,  have  been  comparative  suc- 
cesses, which  shows  that  public  understanding  for  such 
pieces  has  progressed  during  the  last  quarter  of  a 
century.  In  fact,  although  Villiers  was  a  precursor  of 
Ibsen  in  La  Re'volte  {The  Dolls  House  was  published 
in   1879),  it   is   owing   to  Ibsen   that   the   public  taste 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

has  at  length  been  sufficiently  educated  to  understand 
him. 

The  present  translation  of  La  Re'volte  appeared  in  the 
Fortnightly  Review  in  December  1897. 

T.  B. 

Pakis,  July  1898. 


Vlll 


THE  REVOLT 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Elisabeth. 
Felix,  her  husband. 


Large  sitting-room,  decorated  in  red,  black  and  gold.  Door  at 
back  of  stage.  Chandelier,  carpet.  To  right  of  grate,  in 
which  small  fire  is  burning,  arm-chair.  On  the  left  an 
ofiice-table,  covered  with  account-books  and  papers,  full  in 
view.  A  shaded  lamp  throwing  light  on  table.  Rest  of 
stage  in  partial  darkness.  Hand  of  clock  over  door  at 
back  near  midnight. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  Elisabeth,  dressed  plainly  in  black, 
seated  resting  her  elbows  on  the  table,  deep  in  thought. 
Felix  opposite,  turning  over  letters  and  bank  notes. 


SCENE  I. 
Elisabeth,  Felix. 

Felix  {after  a  long  silence). 
What's  the  time  ? 

Elisabeth. 
Very  late. 

Felix  {absently). 

Midnight  already?     {He  turns  up  the  lamp,  blinking.) 

Bother    the   lamp !  What   is   the    matter  with   it 

to-night  ?       I    can't  see  !       Baptistin  !       Francis  ! 
Francis ! 

Elisabeth  {taking  up  her  pen). 

They  were  tired  and  I  told  them  to  go  to  bed. 

3 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  {muttering). 

Tired — tired  !  And  are  we  not  ?  You  let  them  impose 
upon  you,  my  dear.  Those  rascals  are  not  worth  a 
rope  to  hang  them  with.  They  take  every  advantage 
of  us.  (He  gets  up  and  lights  a  cigar  at  one  of  the 
candles  on  the  mantelpiece.  Smoking  with  back  to 
the  fire.  Hands  behind  him.)  Yes,  they  do,  they 
do.  But  that's  enough  for  to-day.  You  will  tire 
yourself. 

Elisabeth  (smiling). 

Oh  !  you  are  too  kind. 

Felix  (slowly  and  businesslike). 
Have  you  entered  the  Farral  &  Winter  receipts  ? 

Elisabeth  (writing). 

They  are  pinned  together  and  put  away  in  the  second 
drawer  of  the  safe. 

Felix. 
And  what  about  the  Lelievre  summons  ? 

Elisabeth. 
Insolvent.     They  are  very,  very  poor. 

Felix  (shaking  the  ash  from  his  cigar). 
The  building  is  always  worth  something. 

Elisabeth  (after  a  pause). 
In  that  case  see  to  the  summons  yourself. 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  {indifferently). 

Eh?  (Aside)  Oho  !  sentiment,  bother  sentiment,  (Aloud). 
Come,  you  can't  see  clearly  in  business  with  tears  in 
your  eyes.  If  we  wait  till  they  are  declared  bankrupt, 
we  shall  have  to  take  a  dividend. 

Elisabeth  (ironically). 
How  awful ! 

Felix. 

Yes,  yes — schemes  of  arrangement ! — Long  proceedings — 
delay — then  a  composition — so  much  in  the  pound, 
etc.,  etc.  Don't  misunderstand  me,  my  dear.  If  I 
sue  these  poor  Lelievres  pitilessly,  it  is  on  principle. 
I  could  weep  for  them  myself,  but,  hang  it — business 
is  business.  (Pulls  his  waistcoat  straight.)  By  the 
bye,  what  are  to-day's  debits  ? 

Elisabeth. 

I  have  subscribed  for  twenty-five  shares  of  the  Silesian 
Mines.     Drawer  C. 

Felix  (drily). 

That's  rather  risky !  Oh,  I  know,  directors  with  sounding 
titles  of  course,  and  flaming  prospectuses,  the  financial 
press  full  of  it.  I  can  understand  poor  devils  buying 
such  things  as  a  last  try  of  luck,  but  that  you — such 
a  prudent,  clear-sighted,  businesslike  woman — should 
have  bought  on  the  faith  of 

Elisabeth  (gently,  still  writing). 

I  know  their  value.  I  have  given  Gaudrot,  Goudron  & 
Co.'s  bills  as  cover,  and  completed  the  amount  in 
cash. 

5 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix. 

Oh  !  that's  different.  You  were  quite  right  to  get  rid  of 
those  rotten  bills  ;  they 

Elisabeth. 

Excuse  me.  The  bills  were  excellent — perfectly  safe.  I 
indorsed  them  with  the  signature  of  the  firm.  All  I 
wished  to  gain  was  the  discount  and  the  commission. 

Felix. 

Oh !  If  you  are  sure  of  the  operation,  you  have  done 
well.  Honesty  is  never  thrown  away  in  business. 
And  now  what  about  the  credits  ? 

Elisabeth  (consulting  a  ledger). 

Two  thousand  six  hundred  and  four  francs,  twenty- two 
centimes. 

Felix. 

Good.  [A  church  clock  strikes  twelve. 

Elisabeth  (closing  her  account  books.    Aside). 

Midnight ! 

[She  remains  pensive,  her  eyelids  half  closed, 
her  hand  buried  in  her  hair. 

Felix  (looking  at  her  complacent!])). 

Well  well,  after  all  I  must  confess  you  really  are  a  plucky 
little  woman  and  you  have  a  head  on  your  shoulders. 
Positively,  during  the  four  years  and  a  half  we  have 
kept  house  together,  I  have  never  once  repented 
having  married  you.  No  indeed !  You  are  a  first- 
rate  book-keeper.     You  don't  seem  bad  looking,  and 

6 


THE  REVOLT 

you  are  no  fool.  That's  not  to  be  despised.  You 
are  painstaking  beyond  my  expectations  and  sweet 
temper  itself.  I  have  nothing  to  find  fault  with, 
nothing.  And  if  I  have  trebled  my  fortune,  I  have 
you  to  thank  for  it.       [He  walks  to  and  fro  smoking. 

Elisabeth  {quietly  and  smiling). 
What  woman  would  not  be  proud  of  such  praise. 

Felix. 

Yes,  I  say,  thanks  to  you.  But  for  you  I  should  have 
made  many  a  slip,  done  perhaps  something  wrong, 
committed  a  lot  of  follies.  You  have  penetration 
.  .  .  almost  masculine  penetration.  And  really  you 
have  a  perfect  genius  for  business  .  .  .  That  is  a 
tremendous  thing !  .  .  .  Then  your  modest  tastes ! 
You  wouldn't  ruin  me  with  milliners'  bills  and 
pleasure  seeking.  It's  even  wrong  to  go  out  so 
little  as  you  do.  You  lead  too  sedentary  a  life — 
almost  a  nun's.  Why  did  you  break  with  all  your 
school-friends  after  they  got  married  ? 

Elisabeth. 

I  am  foolish  enough,  as  you  know,  to  respect  only  women, 
who  are  so  unfashionable  as  to  decline  to  neglect 
their  duties. 

Felix  {sitting  down). 

I  am  glad  of  it.  But  of  course  business  first.  One  has 
to  see  people,  if  only  for  business'  sake.  We  must 
never  go  to  extremes,  or  we  fall  into  Utopia. 

7 


THE  REVOLT 

Elisabeth  (teasingly). 

I  did  not  think  the  credit  of  the  firm  would  suffer  if  I 
shunned  such  company. 

Felix  (pleasantly). 

You  obstinate  little  woman  !  Come  now !  No  quixotism. 
As  regards  the  credit  of  the  firm,  of  course  everybody 
knows  that  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  who  would 
disappear  by  moonlight  with  the  cashbox.  And 
when  I  say  I  am  in  the  right,  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
better  than  I  am.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't 
think  I  was  by  nature  overscrupulous.  (Elisabeth 
gives  him  a  look.)  This  is  between  ourselves. 
Education  has  taught  me  to  see  my  true  interests 
and  I  have  become  an  honest  man. 

Elisabeth  (mockingly). 
Yes,  for  manners'  sake. 

Felix  (coughs,  warming  his  feet  at  the  fire). 

You  might  mix  me  a  drop  of  something.  I  am  afraid  of 
catching  a  cold.  I  look  strong,  but  my  constitution 
is  delicate.  The  least  draught  brings  back  my 
lumbago. 

Elisabeth  (with  a  sort  of  kindly  interest). 
It  is  true  you  are  not  robust.     I  have  often  noticed  it. 

Felix  (sitting  down  on  the  sofa). 

Now  listen.  I  want  you  not  to  tire  yourself  so  much — 
I  insist  on  it.  You  understand  me  ?  See  how  easy 
it  is  to  fall  ill.     You  know  I  am  very  fond  of  you 

8 


THE  REVOLT 

and  I  should  not  like  to  see  you  in  bad  health.  Whom 
could  I  trust  to  keep  the  books  if  you  were  in  bed. 
No !  henceforth  when  the  weather  is  fine  we  will  go 
twice  a  week,  except  of  course  on  settlement  days,  to 
enjoy  the  country  air  and  to  look  at  the  beauties  of 
nature.  Spring  is  just  coming  in  and  that  always 
makes  a  new  man  of  me.  You  will  see — (smiles 
slyly) — I  don't  dislike  the  country  now  and  again. 
It  brightens  one  up  and  it's  good  for  business  too. 
It's  like  the  theatre, — we  live  too  retired  a  life.  Why 
shouldn't  we  go  to  the  play  sometimes  ?  Even  that 
can  be  turned  to  some  account.  Besides  it  is  a 
pleasant  change.  Yes,  we'll  do  that.  I  can  easily  get 
tickets — through  our  friend  Vaudran — he  is  the  very 
man.  I  will  punish  him  for  flirting  with  you  at  your 
tea-parties — and  it  will  be  a  saving  into  the  bargain. 

Elisabeth  (after  a  short  silence,  near  a  window, 

absently). 

How  dark  it  is  to-night. 

Felix. 

What  does  it  matter  ?  I  have  no  ship  at  sea  and  the  roof 
of  this  house  is  water-tight.  Our  worthy  forefathers 
knew  how  to  build  (returning  to  the  previous  topic). 
Of  course  when  we  go  to  the  theatre  we  must  try  to 
avoid  those  horrid  new  pieces —  you  know. — Accord- 
ing to  the  papers  there  is  a  crew — a  band — of  in- 
novators who  try  to  put  everything  into  confusion  to 
make  themselves  notorious.  They  fancy  they  are 
superior  to  others.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  all  they  do  is 
to  awaken  emotions  in  respectable  people — that — 

9 


THE  REVOLT 

that  are  almost  dangerous.  It's  preposterous.  It 
ought  to  be  put  down.  I  go  to  the  theatre  to  laugh. 
What  else  does  one  go  for?  I  like  simple  things, 
simple  as  nature  itself.  Isn't  nature  simple  ?  Isn't 
life  simple  ?  Isn't  everything  simple  ?  I  don't  care 
for  mountains  too  high,  in  nature,  nor  in  persons 
either.  What  I  like  is  honest  moderation.  If  people 
want  to  live  in  the  clouds  let  them  do  so  discreetly. 
Hang  innovators.  I  like  the  old  pieces.  They  are 
good — and  when  a  thing  is  good,  people  ought  to 
i — mi — tate  it  (poking  the  fire).  I  don't  mean  to 
say,  of  course,  that  sometimes — in  certain  cases — it 
may  not  be  all  right  to 

Elisabeth  (listening). 

Excuse  me !  (A  carriage  is  heard  drawing  up  at  the  gate. 
Aside).     The  carriage !     Good. 

[She  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out. 

Felix  (turning  round). 

Hallo  !  Did  you  hear  that  ?  Who  can  be  coming  at  this 
hour  ?  That  Baptistin  !  And— (gets  up) — I  shall 
dismiss  them  on  the  spot.  Nobody  to  answer  the 
door  !     I  must  go  myself.  [Takes  a  candlestick. 

Elisabeth  (in  a  high  key,  turning  round  sharphj, 
pale  and  proud). 

Save  yourself  the  trouble.  There  is  nobody  in  the  carriage 
at  the  gate,  and  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you. 
You  may  find  it  useful  to  grant  me  a  few  moments' 
attention.     Of  course  you  will  do  as  you  like. 

10 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  {startled.     Stopping,  candle  in  hand). 
Eh  !     What  do  you  say  ?     You  are  joking  ? 

Elisabeth. 
You  will  be  able  to  judge  by  and  bye. 

Felix  {looking  at  her  closely). 

How  pale  you  are.  Do  you  feel  unwell  ?  Why  do  you 
speak  to  me  so  coldly  ? 

Elisabeth. 

I  should  not  encroach  upon  your  time  so  late  if  I  alone 
were  concerned. 

Felix  {puts  down  candle,  slightly  bewildered). 

Why  such  a  tone  ?  Why  do  you  look  like  that  ?  {starting 
to  his  feet  and  breathless).  Farral  &  Winter  have 
failed? 

Elisabeth  {taking  a  pocket-book  from  a  drawer). 
No! 

Felix  {stuttering  though  evidently  reassured). 

Really,  my  dear,  I  have  never  seen  you  so  strange. 

[A  pause.     He  sinks  into  an  armchair 
opposite  his  wife. 

Elisabeth  {turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  pocket-book). 

Oh,  my  looks  never  meant  anything.  {After  a  short 
pause,  curtly).  Here  is  the  exact  amount  of  your 
fortune,  trebled  as  you  said  in  the  last  four  and  a 
half  years.     It   is   one    million    two    hundred    and 

11 


THE  REVOLT 

seventy-four  thousand  francs.  Of  this  sum  fifty 
thousand  two  hundred  and  eighty  francs  have  been 
earned  by  me  personally,  in  commissions — here  are 
the  items.  My  salary  at  ten  hours  a  day,  Sundays 
excepted,  is  not  included.  Here  is  the  amount 
without  interest.  The  law  gives  you  the  right,  as 
head  of  our  joint  fortune,  to  two-thirds  of  these 
sums.  Deducting  them,  there  remains  for  me  thirty- 
two  thousand  francs  minus  sixteen  francs  thirty 
centimes.  Here  they  are.  (She  places  some  money 
on  the  table.)  This  purse  contains  about  two  hundred 
francs.  They  belonged  to  me  before  my  marriage. 
As  they  are  quite  apart  from  my  dowry,  the  law 
permits  me  to  do  with  them  as  I  like.  Out  of 
them  I  pay  therefore  the  balance  of  the  thirty- 
two  thousand  francs — if  you  please. 

Felix. 
What  do  you  mean  ?     Are  you  out  of  your  mind  ? 

Elisabeth  (curtly). 

Here  is  a  schedule  of  the  price  of  my  clothes,  deducted 
and  paid,  for  four  years  aud  five  months — One 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  seventeen  francs  exactly. 
I  may  remind  you  that  the  law  compelled  you  to 
feed  and  shelter  me  from  the  day  you  put  this  ring 
on  my  finger.  (Takes  off  her  wedding  ring  and 
quietly  puts  it  on  the  table.)  The  lace,  diamonds  and 
other  presents  you  gave  me  before  my  marriage  are 
upstairs  in  my  desk.  Here  is  the  list  of  them, 
fastened  to  the  key  of  my  room.  (Puts  the  key  on 
the  tabk.)     My  dowry  belongs   to  you  by  law,    we 

12 


THE  REVOLT 

need  not  go  into  that.  The  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  will  be  sufficient  for  the  education  and 
marriage  of  your  daughter,  of  the  child  I  bore  you 
and  which  the  law  in  its  omniscience  does  not  allow 
me  to  take  away  with  me.  Keep  her.  I  kissed  her 
to-night,  no  doubt,  for  the  last  time,  when  I  put  her 
to  bed. 

Felix. 
Elisabeth ! 

Elisabeth  {unaffectedly). 

You  will  notice  in  the  account  I  have  just  given  you  that 
I  have  deducted  from  my  salary  the  four  months  and 
twenty-two  days  during  which  I  was  unable  to  work, 
because  of  my  interesting  condition,  as  you  were 
pleased  to  call  it.  If  I  have  omitted  anything  I 
may  owe  you  according  to  law,  I  will  send  the 
amount  with  business  interest  from  to-day  to  the 
date  at  which  you  receive  it  inclusive.  Please  pro- 
vide in  your  will  how  it  is  to  go  in  case  you  should 
die  before  me. 

Felix  (to  himself). 
Good  God !     She  has  gone  mad. 


&v 


Elisabeth. 

To  be  brief,  the  thirty-two  thousand  francs  which  belong 
to  me  are  so  invested  that  I  shall  be  able,  in  return 
for  my  past  labour  to  count  on  a  little  bread  and 
cheese  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  without  going  through 
any  further  trials.  In  fact  I  have  paid  my  debt  to 
society.     (Pause.     She  takes  a  paper  from  her  bosom 

13 


THE  REVOLT 

and  places  it  on  the  table  beside  the  key  and  ring.) 
Here  is  the  power  of  attorney  to  use  the  signature  of 
the  firm,  you  did  me  the  honour  of  trusting  me  with. 
I  return  it  as  received.     (She  gets  up.)     Any  further 

explanation  seems  needless.     I  therefore 

[She  takes  hat  and  cloak  from  the  chair. 

Felix. 

Why  !  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Is  it  on  account  of  the  Lelievre  affair  ?  Good 
heavens  !  I'll  willingly  forego  the  three  thousand  and 
sixteen  francs  and  even  the  law  costs.  But  do 
explain. 

Elisabeth. 

I  have  explained.  (She  icalks  towards  the  door  at  the 
back.  Then  quietly)  I  wish  you  good-night  and 
entreat  you  to  forget  even  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

Felix  (standing  before  the  door  and  folding  his 
arms.     Shortly). 

You  have  a  lover. 

Elisabeth  (stopping  and  getting  still  paler). 

This  is  an  outrage.  You  compel  me  to  speak.  Very 
well.  It  is  your  right.  I  obey.  (She  conies  forward 
again,  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece.  Her  head 
is  lit  up  by  the  candles  behind  her.  Speaking  in  a 
cold,  perfectly  calm  voice)  You  will  not  like  what 
I  have  to  say,  but  you  have  left  me  no  alternative. 
I  must  reply  (looking  him  full  in  the  face).  I 
think  you  do  not  know  me  very  well.  You  probably 
have  a  false  idea  of  my  character.     (She  smiles  in  a 

\4 


THE  REVOLT 

strange  way.  Felix  is  thunderstruck.)  I  will  tell  you 
the  facts.  (Pause.)  You  remember  the  sort  of  family 
mine  was  and  the  kind  of  life  I  was  leading  when 
you  proposed  to  marry  me.  You  recollect  the  shop 
with  the  old  armour  and  the  curios.  My  father  and 
mother  were  matter-of-fact  people.  They  had  taught 
me  early  to  attach  the  greatest  value  to  the  smallest 
piece  of  gold.  That  is  why  I  can  keep  accounts  and 
am  not  quite  unworthy  of  your  good  opinion. 

Felix. 
Am  I  dreaming  ?     My  dear  girl,  you  frighten  me. 

Elisabeth. 

Oh !  don't  alarm  yourself! — Well,  in  spite  of  my  surround- 
ings and  education,  I  did  not  perhaps  consider  what 
is  called  "  the  practical  side  of  life  "  of  supreme 
importance.  However,  with  the  modesty  becoming 
young  people,  I  did  my  best  to  see  things  in  the  same 
light  as  my  family.  I  said  to  myself :  "  They  must 
know  best,  because  they  are  older  and  then  they  are 
my  parents."     You  understand  ? 

Felix  (stuttering). 
But — I — Come  now — sit  down. 

Elisabeth. 

I  recollect  my  father  often  talking  to  me  as  he  would  to 
a  grown-up  person.  He  was  a  clever  sort  of  man. 
When  we  were  out  walking  he  would  point  to  the 
railway  carriages,  the  electric  wires,  the  gas,  the 
smoke.    "Look,  child,"  he  would  say,  "this  is  Human 

15 


THE  REVOLT 

Progress,  Science  spreading  its  wings  and  giving 
freedom.  Look  at  the  might  and  splendour  of  these 
inventions.  The  past  was  an  age  of  childhood.  It 
is  barely  a  hundred  years  since  Man,  casting  off 
superstition  and  dreams,  dared  face  the  broad  sun- 
light. Be  a  practical  woman,  be  a  good  woman  and 
be  rich.     Everything  else  is  vanity." 

Felix  {coming  nearer  to  her). 
Now  that's  not  bad,  especially  the  last  bit. 

Elisabeth. 

I  listened  attentively  to  these  precepts,  but  I  could  not 
help  thinking,  in  spite  of  my  filial  respect,  that  in 
comparison  with  the  "everything  else"  my  father 
and  mother  called  "  vanity,"  the  things  they  called 
practical  and  important  were  only  of  secondary 
value. 

Felix. 
Secondary ! 

Elisabeth. 

Yes.  And  on  account  of  these,  unfortunately,  rather 
exceptional  feelings,  no  one  took  the  trouble  to 
notice  1  had  a  profound  antipathy,  disgust,  for 
what  is  called  the  solid  and  practical  side  of  life — 
do  you  understand — and  I  listened  in  silence.  You 
see,  if  others  are  not  deceived  by  words,  I  am  not 
deceived  by  facts.  And  whenever  any  impression, 
any  idea  delights  and  raises  me  above  everyday  life, 
helps  me  to  forget  my  bondage  and  troubles,  I  shall 
persist  in  considering  the  fact  which  seems  to  belie 

16 


THE  REVOLT 

the  truth  of  my  impression,  as  false.  In  other  words, 
life  for  life  in  this  world,  with  its  substantial  reality 
of  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  per  annum,  I 
hold  that  it  is  better  to  live  in  the  clouds  than  in 
mud,  however  thick  and  solid  it  may  be.     (A  pause.) 

Felix  (as  if  stunned). 
Good    heavens!     What    is    she   saying?     What   is  she 


cr? 


sayin 

Elisabeth  (quietly). 

Then  you  came.  I  yielded  to  the  advice  my  parents  gave 
me,  out  of  gratitude  and  because  it  was  my  duty. 
I  accepted  you.  (Smiling).  And  yet  you  cannot 
imagine  the  utter  indifference  I  have  always  felt  for 
you. 

Felix  (coldly). 

Look  here,  Elisabeth,  if  this  is  a  joke — Hang  it — You 
had  better  stop. 

Elisabeth. 

When  I  swore  in  the  presence  of  that  man  with  the 
tricoloured  scarf,  to  be  faithful  to  you  unto  death, 
without  understanding  the  pledge  I  was  taking,  I 
said  to  myself:  "This  man  who  is  holding  my  hand 
in  his,  is  my  husband,  on  him  I  have  henceforth  to 
lean.  He  looks  like  a  sensible  man,  whose  judgments 
are  probably  more  correct,  trustworthy  and  enlightened 
than  mine.  He  has  a  right  to  know  my  thoughts.  I 
have  to  put  all  my  trust  in  him.  In  him  I  put  all 
my  hope  in  the  future.  It  seems  moreover  that  this 
is  my  duty." 
b  17 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  (calmer  and  ironically). 
Good,  very  good.     When  you  talk  anything  like  sense  I 
always  agree  with  you. 

Elisabeth. 

Three  days  after,  as  you  said  nothing,  I  was  simple  enough 
to  suggest  that  we  should  enjoy  life  together  as  best 
we  could.  I  spoke  to  you  of  the  delights  of  this 
world,  of  the  true  reality,  the  one  we  ought  to  choose. 
I  poured  out  all  the  treasures  of  my  heart  and  soul 
impetuously  at  your  feet.  I  spoke  to  you  of  a  peace- 
ful intelligent  life  and  I  felt  that  I  was  deserving  of 
love  and  that  I  could  be  a  worthy  companion  and  a 
devoted  mother. 

Felix  (stroking  his  chin). 
But  I  only  remember  the — the 

Elisabeth. 

The  attitude  with  which  you  listened  to  me,  you  mean. 
Yes,  indeed,  it  was  worth  remembering.  It  was  at 
this  very  hour  and  in  this  very  place,  four  and  a  half 
years  ago.  You  came  towards  me  with  a  slight, 
almost  paternal  smile,  tapped  me  gently  on  the 
cheek  with  two  fingers,  and  said  with  your  usual 
air  of  superiority  :  "  You  little  goose !  Come,  come  ! 
we  must  repress  this  wild  imagination  of  yours." 
That  was  how  you  met  my  advances.  And  I  saw 
at  once  that  although  married  we  were  not  one  at 
heart,  that  there  was  an  essential  difference  between 
our  two  natures,  in  fact,  that  my  life  was  wasted.  I 
determined  then  to  live  apart  from  you  and  to  prove 

18 


THE  REVOLT 

that  my  ideas  were  not  inferior  but  superior  to  yours. 
I  did  my  best  by  hard  and  successful  office  labour  to 
indemnify  you  as  far  as  possible  for  the  loss  you  might 
sustain  on  my  departure.  Hence  my  unceasing  in- 
dustry and  foresight  and  the  increase  of  fortune  that 
followed.     I  was  working  for  my  ransom. 

Felix  (beginning  to  get  angry). 

Tut,  tut,  tut,  tut,  you  are  talking  nonsense.  You'll  make 
me  angry  yet.  I  know  what  women  are  and  can 
make  allowance  for  quick  tempers.  But  come  now. 
What  is  it  you  want?  Specify  once  for  all,  what 
is  it? 

Elisabeth. 

I  want  to  live,  you  dullard.  Don't  you  understand  that 
one  may  reasonably  want  to  enjoy  life  ?  I  am 
stifled  here,  I  long  for  serious  things,  I  want  to 
breathe  the  open  air  of  heaven !  Can  I  take  your 
banknotes  with  me  to  the  grave  ?  How  much  time 
do  you  think  we  have  to  live?  (A  pause,  then 
thoughtfully)  To  live  ? — Do  I  even  care  to  live  ? 
A  lover ! — you  said.  Alas  no !  I  have  no  lover 
and  never  shall  have  one.  I  was  meant  to  love  a 
husband — mark  that — and  all  I  asked  of  him  was 
a  spark  of  human  sympathy.  You  see,  it  is  all 
over  now ;  the  pride  of  love  has  frozen  in  my  veins. 
You  took  from  me  in  my  stupidity  and  anguish,  as 
if  it  were  mere  dross,  what  I  would  have  given  with 
wild  joy  and  for  ever.  I  hope  for  your  sake  that  you 
will  never  find  out  what  you  have  lost.  You  are 
like  a  blind  Jew  who  has  dropped  his  precious 
stones  by  the  roadside. 

19 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  {looking  at  her  uneasily.     Aside). 

I  really  think  she  is  mad.  {Aloud  in  icy  tones)  Come, 
come,  be  calm.  These  are  words  —  mere  words. 
You  must  not  excite  yourself  with  empty  phrases. 
Suppose  you  go  and  lie  down.  Come  now  !  What 
do  you  say  to  that  ? 

Elisabeth  {unmoved). 

Words  !  And  with  what  else  do  you  want  me  to  answer 
you  ?  With  what  do  you  question  me  ?  I  hear 
nothing  but  the  ring  of  money  in  your  words,  if 
mine  are  more  beautiful  and  more  profound,  pity 
me.  It  is  unfortunate  no  doubt,  but  it  is  my  way 
of  speaking.  And  after  all  what  does  it  matter? 
We  are  both  in  the  right,  I  daresay.  But  that  is 
not  the  question. — I  am  quite  aware  that  the  intense 
desire  to  love,  at  least,  the  glory  and  grandeur  of  the 
world,  when  one  is  excluded  from  social  love  means 
nothing  but  "words"  to  you. — I  know  that  for  you 
it  is  mere  sentimentality  to  dream  in  the  twilight, 
with  a  silent,  pretty  young  wife.  I  know  the 
mystery  of  the  Universe  will  never  draw  more  than 
an  indifferent  smile  from  your  self-satisfied  lips  for 
nothing  has  ever  struck  you  as  pathetic  or  mysterious, 
not  even  the  lot  of  Man.  Of  course  I  know  that, 
being  a  well-informed,  sensible  person,  you  don't 
despise  "now  and  again"  the  open  air,  the  sea 
breeze,  the  rocks,  the  tree-clad  hills,  the  sun,  the 
woods,  winter  and  night,  the  starry  heaven — that 
is  if  you  admit  a  heaven.  You  consider  such  things 
"poetical."     You  speak  of  them  as  "the  country." 

20 


THE  REVOLT 

I  have  a  different  way  of  looking  at  them.  The 
world  has  only  the  meaning  the  strength  of  words 
and  the  power  of  eyes  give  it,  and  I  consider,  to 
look  around  from  a  higher  point  than  reality — is 
the  art  of  life — the  secret  of  human  nobleness,  of 
Happiness  and  Peace. 

Felix  {impatient  and  contemptuously). 

The  art  of  life  is  never  to  dream.  You  can  tell  me  perhaps 
what  dreaming  is  ? 

Elisabeth  {gloomily). 
Are  you  sure  you  would  understand  ? 

Felix  {growing  angry). 

Elisabeth !  .  .  .  No  ...  I  made  up  my  mind  to  listen 
to  the  end.  When  I  know  what  is  in  your  mind, 
I  will  answer  you  after  my  fashion. 

Elisabeth  {quietly). 

Well !  In  the  first  place  to  dream  is  to  forget  the 
tyranny  of  inferior  minds,  which  are  a  thousand 
times  more  abject  than  stupidity  itself.  It  is  to 
escape  hearing  the  moans  of  incurable  misery.  It 
is  to  forget  those  humiliations  we  have  to  bear  and 
to  inflict  on  others,  called  social  life.  It  is  to  forget 
so-called  duties,  which  are  nothing  but  greed  of 
profit,  and  in  whose  name  we  shut  our  eyes  to  the 
lot  of  the  weak  and  suffering.  It  is  to  contemplate 
in  the  depths  of  our  thought  a  hidden  world  only 
faintly  reflected  by  outside  realities.  It  is  to 
strengthen    the    ever    conscious   hope    in    death — 

21 


THE  REVOLT 

death  which  is  at  hand.  It  is  to  feel  the  mystery 
of  the  everlasting,  to  feel  solitary  but  immortal.  It 
is  to  love  the  Ideal,  to  love  it  as  naturally  as  the 
river  flows  to  the  sea.  And  as  for  the  rest — the 
amusements  and  duties  of  the  wretched  age  in  which 
my  lot  is  cast — they  are  not  worth  a  day's  existence. 
To  dream  is  to  die — to  die  in  silence  with  a  glimpse 
of  heaven  in  one's  eyes.  How  I  long  for  it.  I  have 
no  tenderness  left,  all  my  enthusiasm  is  gone,  my 
heart  is  dead. 

Felix  (insolently). 

Oh!  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is.  You  must  have  been 
reading  some  mischievous  novel  which  has  unhinged 
your  mind. 

Elisabeth  (taking  no  notice). 

But  supposing  that  to  dream  were  mere  fruitless  contem- 
plation of  one's  own  solitude — is  that  not  more  useful 
than  to  pass  time  in  making  profit  out  of  the  ruin 
of  others,  than  daily  to  commit  a  thousand  acts  of 
fraud  and  of  meanness,  than  to  dishearten  those  who 
really  work  and  flaunt  before  them  licensed  opera- 
tions which  make  a  man  rich  in  an  hour.  .  .  .  Why 
you  have  nothing  but  emptiness  to  offer  me  in 
exchange  for  my  dreams  ! 

Felix  (bursting  into  laughter). 

Do  you  want  to  make  me  believe  you  are  a  woman  with- 
out principle,  you !  You  have  a  fit  of  despondency. 
And  to  think  that  a  minute  ago  you  were  sitting 
there   so   quiet   and   reasonable.     It   is   incredible  ! 

22 


THE  REVOLT 

Are  you  blaming  me  for  earning  a  dowry  for  our 
child  ? 

Elisabeth. 

If  I  could  only  pity  you  !  But  no — these  vouchers  and 
accounts,  a  well-filled  cash-box,  law  suits,  liquida- 
tions, litigation  are  your  native  element.  Just  as  air 
is  that  of  a  bird.  You  snap  up  banknotes  in  your 
flight  like  butterflies.  For  you  the  sun  does  not 
shine,  the  wind  does  not  blow,  man  has  not  patiently 
dreamt  and  suffered,  there  is  no  vaulted  heaven  over 
the  grave.  You  reckon  your  days  only  as  so  much 
time  for  making  money,  premiums,  dividends,  interest 
— compound  if  possible.  And  is  it  not  downright 
insanity  to  despoil  others  and  rob  yourself  of  your 
own  life  for  a  monomania  of  business,  to  satisfy  a 
mechanical,  unquenchable  thirst  for  money  making  ? 

Felix  (stamping  his  foot). 

Money  means  influence;  it  commands  esteem.  Nobody 
knows  that  better  than  you. 

Elisabeth. 

Well,  so  be  it.  But  your  pleasures  are  not  mine.  I  who 
know  well  enough  what  success  in  business  is,  I 
consider  things  that  seem  to  you  mere  frivolity  the 
only  realities  worth  living  for.  And  it  is  your 
occupations  I  call  childish  and  mischievous,  for  in 
them  the  precious  days  of  life  are  squandered.  Even 
to  think  of  them  is  lowering  and  waste  of  time. 
They  pay  dear  indeed  for  daily  bread  who  are  in- 
capable of  anything  better  than  eating  it. 

23 


Really— I- 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  (furiously). 


Elisabeth  (sitting  down,  her  eyes  gazing  vacantly. 
In  a  low  voice  as  if  to  herself). 

Yes — indeed,  filial  respect  and  conjugal  fidelity  hardly 
warrant  such  blind  confidence.  My  conscience  is 
aghast  at  the  results  of  duty  fulfilled.  And  what, 
under  cover  of  duty,  have  these  big  words  brought 
me  to?  Youth  murdered — beauty  gone  before  its 
time — exquisite  evenings  profaned  by  account  books. 
A  child  whom  I  dare  not  bring  up — a  husband  whose 
very  presence  awakens  remembrances  which  fill  my 
eyes  with  tears  of  shame.  Of  shame  I  tell  you — a 
future  without  a  family  or  friends,  the  annihilation 
of  all  I  have  cherished — degradation  and  suppression 
of  all  that  is  most  lovable  in  me.  And  amid  this  ruin, 
if  I  let  it  be  seen,  I  should  hear  the  rude  laugh  of  the 
passer-by,  sneering  at  me  as  nfemme  incomprise  whose 
desire  was  to  be  thought  intellectual.  For  to  jeer  at 
misfortune  with  words  of  contempt  like  "dreams," 
"poetry,"  "clouds,"  sounds  practical  good  sense  to 
people  who  are  simply  obtuse,  people  who  probably 
could  not  cope  with  me  for  five  minutes  in  a  business 
transaction.  I  have  proved  that,  I  think.  Yes! 
these  are  the  realities  I  have  lost  for  the  sake  of 
learning  that  two  and  two  make  four — and  that  I 
know  as  well,  if  not  better  than  you.  They  are  gone 
for  ever,  and  all  your  so-called  common  sense  will 
never  make  up  for  them.  These  are  my  assets  and 
liabilities — that  is  the  balance  sheet  of  my  life  and 
now  you  know  it. 

24 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  {shrugging  his  shoulders). 

Ah !  Your  ridiculous  excitement  is  more  than  I  can 
endure.  Stop  your  reproaches  and  come  to  the 
conclusion. 

Elisabeth  (getting  up). 

You  see  no  discussion  between  us  is  possible.  If  you 
could  only  understand  what  you  have  done  to  me, 
your  unconscious  equanimity  would  be  poisoned  with 
remorse  for  ever.  All  this,  however,  is  beyond  your 
depth  and  I  have  not  even  the  resource  of  hating 
you.  My  soul  is  like  a  child  stolen  by  the  gypsies — 
my  heart  is  a  vessel  of  gold  rilled  with  gall.  .  .  .  And 
now  I  must  have  a  little  freedom.  And  if  it  is  my 
duty  to  remain,  I  have  not  the  strength  to  perform 
it.  So  I  am  going  to  leave  you.  And  thanks  to 
you  there  is  no  time  to  spare  if  I  am  to  preserve  the 
faculty  of  enjoying  my  last  rays  of  sunshine. 

Felix  (dazed). 

But  I  have  been  suggesting  that  we  should  go  twice  a 
week  to  the  country. 


Elisabeth  (going  on  without  listening). 

Far  from  here  is  Iceland,  Sicily  or  Norway — it  doesn't 
matter  which — in  a  country  of  my  own  choice  stands 
a  lonely  house  which  I  have  earned,  bought  with  my 
money.  Instead  of  being  caged  in  this  office,  I  shall 
retire  to  this  delightful  far-oif  spot,  where  I  shall  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  horizon — that's  something  useful  .  .  . 
As  for  the  company  you  receive  on  Wednesday 
evenings,  I  prefer  that  of  the  trees.     It  is  infinitely 

25 


THE  REVOLT 

more  wholesome.  I  prefer  the  moaning  of  the  winter 
winds  to  the  compliments  of  Mr  Vaudran.  Yes,  I 
am  insane  to  that  extent ! 

Felix  (surprised). 
What !     Vaudran  pays  you  compliments  ? 

Elisabeth  (taking  no  notice). 

I  shall  open  once  more  my  old  books — those  boon  com- 
panions of  the  evening.  And  silence — my  old  friend 
— I  shall  have  that  too.  So  do  not  fear  for  your 
name,  which  I  cannot  cast  from  me.  I  think  a  good 
conscience — that  you  ought  to  know — the  most 
precious  thing  in  the  world,  whatever  anyone  else 
says  and  does.  And,  if  ever  I  ceased  to  be  strictly  a 
virtuous  woman,  my  light  would  go  out,  like  a  lamp 
without  oil.  Such  is  my  nature,  and  I  like  myself 
the  better  for  it. 

Felix  (disturbed,  sarcastic  and  cold). 
You  have  bought  some  property  ? 

Elisabeth  (playing  absently  with  a  little 
pocket  pistol). 

No  one  will  find  me  in  the  country  I  am  going  to,  and  no 
taste  for  society,  flirtation,  toilets,  balls  and  gaieties 
of  any  kind  will  ever  make  me  quit  it,  except  on 
some  grey  winter  morning  in  the  cold  rain  along  a 
lonely  road,  escorted  by  an  old  servant  and  a  man 
with  a  spade. 

26 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix. 
There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  I  must  send  for  the  doctor. 
You  are  mad. 

Elisabeth  {quietly  puts  on  her  cloak,  hat  and  gloves). 

Felix  {interrupting  her). 

Where  are  you  going  ?  Do  stop  this  absurd  scene  and  go 
to  bed  like  a  sensible  woman.  The  country — the 
country,  after  all,  is  only  fit  for  little  birds ! — I  was 
wrong  to  be  angry  just  now — I  should  not  have  taken 
what  you  said  seriously.  Come,  give  up  that  idea 
of  going  away.  You  don't  mean  it  any  more  than  I 
do  ;  it  is  absurd.  It  is  even  pitiful.  I  need  only  say 
one  word  to  prove  it  to  you.  You  give  me  up — 
very  well.  But  what  about  your  duties  as  a  mother  ? 
You  speak  to  me  about  trees,  and  evening  com- 
panions— and  your  daughter  ?  It  is  with  her  you 
ought  to  spend  your  evenings — you  hear  ?  You  have 
to  bring  her  up  and  teach  her  to  love  her  parents, 
and  all  the  things  a  woman  should  know — book- 
keeping— healthy  ideas,  and  how  to  spend  a  useful 
and  active  life.  You  can  even  teach  her  her  prayers 
— I  don't  object.  Yes  I  have  noticed  you  are  given 
to  mysticism  and  devotions.  Now  don't  say  a  word, 
but  go  to  your  bedroom.  To-morrow  morning,  when 
you  look  at  things  more  calmly,  you  will  be  the  first 
to  acknowledge 

Elisabeth  {stopping  and  frowning). 

Perhaps  you  don't  know  I  have  some  acquaintance  with 
your  character.  You  are  appealing  to  my  motherly 
feelings  in  order  to  retain  a  good  and  trustworthy 

27 


THE  REVOLT 

cashier.  This  is  terribly  clear  to  me.  Only  yesterday 
you  said  your  daughter  was  to  be  brought  up  in  a 
convent,  that  she  should  go  there  as  soon  as  possible 
and  only  leave  it  at  her  marriage,  like  everybody  else. 

Felix  {almost  strikes  her,  but  stopping  short). 

Wretched  woman !  Now  see  whether  you  are  right. 
You  would  crush  a  poor  little  innocent  life  with  the 
weight  of  your  sickening  discontent.  You  have  no 
right  to  do  so.  Yet  I  do  not  think  you  really  cruel 
and  unnatural. 

Elisabeth  {more  and  more  gloomy,  almost 
threateningly). 

My  child !  Oh,  how  often  in  the  night  have  I  taken  her 
in  my  arms  and  tried  to  knead  her  afresh  with  my 
kisses,  to  transfuse  my  being  into  her  and  in  her  seek 
deliverance.  But  she  looks  at  me  as  at  a  stranger. 
There  is  not  a  trace  of  me  in  the  child.  I  see  only 
you — you — in  her  eyes.  Even  in  her  I  cannot  escape 
from  you.  Do  you  think  I  should  otherwise  have 
hesitated  to  take  her  away  and  make  her  my  com- 
panion in  misfortune  ?  There  may  be  grandeur  and 
beauty  in  some  despair,  but  mine,  mingled  with  the 
life  of  your  child,  would  be  poison.  No  !  my  heart 
has  shed  its  love  drop  by  drop.  I  am  a  lifeless  body. 
I  should  freeze  my  daughter  when  I  kissed  her.  I 
leave  her  as  I  leave  this  house.  There  is  nothing 
more  for  me  to  do  here.  Besides,  I  have  other  duties 
to  fulfil.     The  fire  is  out  and  the  ashes  are  cold. 

[She   wraps  herself  hastily  in  her  cloak 
and  goes  towards  the  door. 
28 


THE  REVOLT 

Felix  {with  his  arms  folded). 

Elisabeth,  you  shall  not  go  out.  Am  I  not  master  here  ? 
You  talk  of  leaving  your  daughter  and  your  husband 
— you — a  good  and  virtuous  woman.  Come  now. 
You  are  hysterical.     It  is  impossible. 

Elisabeth  {pointing  to  a  crystal  paper  weight 
on  the  table). 

You  see  this  block  of  crystal.  I  leave  it  to  you  as  a 
souvenir.  Not  even  the  shadow  of  these  account 
books  can  tarnish  it.  All  light,  as  the  light  of  this 
candle  sparkles  in  its  depth,  with  a  thousand  gleam- 
ing rays.  Its  one  faculty  is  to  reflect  light.  Its 
edges  are  hard  and  sharp  ;  it  is  polished,  transparent, 
truthful — and  icy  cold.  If  you  should  ever  think  of 
me — look  at  it. 
[She  pulls  down  her  veil,  and  opening  the  door  goes 

out.     While  Felix  stands  stupefied  she  disappears 

in  the  darkness. 

Felix  (makes  a  motion  as  if  to  rush  after  her,  seems 
suddenly  to  change  his  mind). 

Ah!  the 

[He  stops  on  the  threshold.     A  deep  silence. 


SCENE  II. 

Felix  (contemptuous  but  furious). 

She  does  it  to  frighten  me.  She  wouldn't  leave  her 
child.  I  have  been  too  patient.  I  should  have — 
yes   I   should  have   taken   my  stick.      She  thinks 

29 


THE  REVOLT 

perhaps  I  shall  run  after  her !  I'm  not  such  a  fool 
— that  is  certain.  It  is  her  reading  those  police 
reports  during  my  nap  after  dinner.  I  have  noticed 
she  has  looked  rather  strange  for  some  time  now. 
I  know  what  women  are.  It  is  hysteria.  If 
I  have  understood  a  word  of  her  reproaches, 
I'll  be  —  What  in  the  world  have  I  done  to  her  ? 
Nothing  whatever.  I  can't  pass  over  such  an 
outburst.  No  doubt  she  has  gone  to  bed — and  I 
will  .  .  .  (Sound  of  carriage  wheels  outside).  .  .  . 
Eh  !  (runs  to  window  and  opens  it).  What !  No  ! 
It's  impossible.  Surely  she  is  not  going  to  abandon 
her  husband  and  child.  .  .  .  Baptistin !  .  .  .  the 
carriage! — the  carriage!  Baptist  .  .  .  (strokes  his 
forehead  and  stops).  Good  God !  It  is  too  late.  It 
was  she  who  sent  the  servants  to  bed  to-night — she 
ordered  the  cab.  She  has  dared!  I  am  choking 
(tears  off  his  cravat).  What's  the  matter  with  my 
chest.  I  can't  breathe.  How  queer  I  feel.  I  didn't 
think  I  was  so  sensitive  as  that !  Gone — gone ! 
Oh !  this  is  really  getting  serious  (falls  into  an  arm- 
chair by  the  table).  So  the  women  nowadays  leave 
husband  and  child  to  go  and  dream !  (A  silence.) 
These  things — this  pen  she  has  just  used !  Her 
watch  !  she  has  left  it  behind — her  ring ! — She  can't 
leave  me  alone  with  her  child. — Has  she  really  gone ! 
It  is  abominable.  She  is  a  bad  mother.  It  is 
against  nature — it  is  impossible.  (He  rises  and 
strides  excitedly  to  and  fro.)  No,  she  will  never 
come  back — never.  She  has  an  iron  will.  I  am 
beginning  to  understand  her  now.  I  know  her.  I 
am  alone.     She  left  nothing  unforeseen.     I  am  .  .  . 

30 


THE  REVOLT 

(with  a  groan,  sitting  down  on  a  chair  in  a  corner). 
Oh,  these  walls!  how  empty  it  is  here.  I  never 
noticed  it  before !  (with  a  distracted  air,  interrupting 
himself  in  a  low  voice).  A  little  house — the  winter 
wind — silence — always  solitude — solitude — and  I — 
(pulling  himself  together).  Help !  help !  I  cannot 
make  out  what  is  the  matter  with  me — I  am  not  ill 
— and  yet — I  feel  so  queer — as  if  I  were  drowned — 
it's  like  tearing  my  life  from  my  body.  Elisabeth ! 
(He  makes  a  few  tottering  steps,  and  then  falls  into 
a  chair  near  the  door  with  arms  extended.)  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  I  am  suffering  dreadfully — dread- 
fully. [He  faints. 


DUMB  SCENE. 

The  clock  over  the  door  strikes  one.  Slow  music.  Then  from 
time  to  time  after  a  sufficiently  long  pause,  two  o'clock, 
then  half-past  two,  then  three,  then  half-past  three,  and 
at  length  four  o'clock  strikes.  Felix  remains  unconscious. 
The  dawn  appears  at  the  windows.  The  candles  go  out. 
The  rim  of  a  candlestick  cracks.  The  fire  burns  down. 
The  door  in  the  background  is  roughly  opened.  Elisabeth 
enters  trembling,  deadly  pale,  holding  her  pocket  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth.  Without  seeing  her  husband,  she  goes 
slowly  to  the  big  arm-chair,  next  the  mantelpiece,  throws 
off  her  hat,  then  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  sits  down 
and  begins  to  think  aloud.  She  is  cold  and  shivers,  her 
teeth  chatter. 


31 


THE  REVOLT 

SCENE  III. 

Felix  and  Elisabeth. 

Elisabeth  {looking  benumbed.     To  herself). 

Too  late  ! — I  have  no  spirit  left.  When  I  looked  through 
the  carriage  window  into  the  night,  despite  all  my 
longing  for  freedom,  my  heart  sank  and  a  cold  feeling 
of  exile  came  over  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  held  in  fetters 
of  lead.  Had  I  exaggerated  the  charms  of  the  countries 
I  longed  to  see  ?  The  noise  of  the  wheels  jarred. 
It  seemed  as  if  I  were  hiding  something  from  myself. 
Even  my  pride  failed  me,  and  solitude  seemed  simply 
bewildering.  I  thought  perhaps  I  was  ill  and  that 
the  rupture  had  been  too  much  for  me.  Illness  had 
never  before  affected  my  thoughts. — It  could  not 
be  that.  I  felt  unhinged,  utterly  helpless.  After 
all  I  suppose  I  was  just  like  other  people — over- 
powered by  the  sense  of  the  irremediable.  The 
minutes  seemed  interminable.  I  saw  what  I  should 
be  to-morrow,  the  day  after — in  a  week — in  three 
months — sad  and  alone,  in  the  midst  of  that  coveted 
solitude,  regretting  even  the  insipidity  of  my  previous 
life.  {She  leans  her  elbow  on  the  table  thoughtfully.) 
The  brambles  beat  against  the  carriage  window. 
The  sky  shone,  over  the  wood  through  which  we 
passed.  Yes,  the  sky  was  there,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  like  forbidden  fruit.  I  felt  as  if  all  its  grand 
and  ennobling  influence  were  wasted  on  me.  It  was 
horrible  !  I  knew  that  the  sacred  breath  of  life  was 
around  me — that  I  was  conscious  of  it,  and  yet  I 
was  indifferent.     I  enjoyed  it  no  more.     My  intense 

32 


THE  REVOLT 

longing  for  oblivion  was  gone.  I  could  no  more 
concentrate  myself  in  meditation.  I  had  forgotten 
how  to  soar  above  the  world,  how  to  shut  my  ears 
against  the  mocking  laughter  of  mankind.  It  was 
over  with  me.  .  .  .  Oh  God !  I  see  it  is  too  late. 
One  must  not  stoop  ever  to  win  freedom.  I  had 
given  way  too  much,  overvalued  the  daily  bread. 
The  eyes  of  my  youth  are  gone.  Enthusiasm  too. 
Art  no  longer  exalts.  Silence  does  not  appease 
me.  That  man  has  drunk  up  my  soul  as  if  it  had 
been  water.  These  four  years  of  drudgery  have 
broken  my  spirits. — Nothing  can  be  blotted  out. 
I  was  boasting  when  I  said  I  wanted  to  live.  I  give 
it  up.  I  have  become  like  those  who  have  never 
had  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  That  man's  perpetual 
smile  has  filled  my  soul  with  bitterness  and  gloom. 
His  accounts  have  crippled  my  mind.  Whether  he 
lives  now  or  dies,  it  is  just  the  same  to  me.  I 
must  remain  what  I  have  become.  The  world  is 
henceforth  a  blank.  Why  go  away?  What  does 
it  matter  whether  I  sleep  here  or  elsewhere. — Do 
I  even  know  why  I  have  come  back? — Oh  yes — I 
remember.  I  did  not  know  where  to  go  to.  The 
cold  morning  air  chilled  me  and  I  returned.  (A 
long  silence.)  There  is  one  thing  still — I  might 
carry  off  my  child  and  cling  to  her  as  to  a  raft, 
might  try  to  make  her  a  woman  with  a  heart  of 
steel,  able  to  endure  all  disenchantments,  stomach 
all  loathings.  For  that  I  should  have  to  take  her 
with  me.  I  should  have  to  accept  with  a  bold 
front — like  so  many  others.  (She  smiles  bitterly.) 
Have  I  the  right  to  oppress  her  with  the  weight 
c  33 


THE  REVOLT 

of  my  future  ?  (She  stops.)  No,  I  will  not.  I 
cannot.  It  is  only  by  bending  to  the  law  that 
you  rise  above  it.  No — let  me  have  no  troubles 
of  that  kind,  no  romantic  acts  to  reproach  myself 
with  in  the  hour  of  death.  I  am  chained  to  a 
wretch  who  has  killed  me.  But  my  place  is  here, 
and  there  is  no  way  out  of  it.  To  flee  with  a 
faint  heart  would  be  cowardice.  I  shall  educate 
my  daughter — that  is  all — and  to-morrow  I  shall 
recommence  my  old  life.  I  have  gone  through 
the  ordeal  and  I  have  failed.  (A  pause.)  I  was 
made  to  bring  forth  brave  men  who  deliver  the 
world,  to  soothe  the  noble  brow  of  one  who  shared 
my  thoughts.  But  this,  it  seems,  was  not  in  store 
for  me.  To  live  under  this  roof  is  duty — honour 
—  dignity.  (After  a  moment.)  And  yet  how 
strange!  (She  gets  up.)  Let  me  begin.  (Throws 
off  Iter  cloak,  arranges  her  dress  before  the  looking- 
glass  and  appears  as  she  was  at  first.)  Oh,  the 
cold  bleak  dawn !  (Looks  round.)  It  seems  as  if 
years  had  passed  since  I  left  this  room.  (Goes 
slowly  to  the  table,  relights  the  lamp  and  opens  the 
account  books.)  There  are  hours  like  a  lifetime, 
they  fix  your  fate  for  ever. 
[Sits  down  and  takes  up  her  pen  in  the  same 
attitude  as  ivhen  curtain  rose. 

Felix  (coming  to  himself  and  looking  at  her  stupidly). 

You — You  here — am  I  dreaming?  Have  you  sent  away 
the  carriage  ?  Have  you  not  gone  away  ?  I  can  tell 
you  I  almost  died.  (Looking  suddenly  at  the  clock). 
Four   o'clock!     Four    in   the  morning.     (Looks   at 

34 


THE  REVOLT 

Elisabeth.  Silence.)  Oh!  I  understand !  (Laughs 
sarcastically.)  It  is  only  fools  who  don't  come  back. 
(Crossing  his  arms.)  Now,  what  about  Sicily, 
Hungary  and  Norway.  Ah,  you  thought  you  could 
desert  your  duties  and  go  off  to  dreamland !  You 
thought  your  fancies  could  be  realised  !  Fool  that  I 
was  to  excite  myself,  as  I  did,  instead  of  saying  to 
you:  "My  dear  girl,  the  door  is  open — go — try." 
(Elisabeth  makes  a  movement.)  Don't  speak !  I 
forgive  you,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  never  go  away 
again.  Look  here,  I  don't  even  regret  the  pain  you 
gave  me.  It  was  a  good  lesson.  This  quarrel  has 
shown  me  that  you  were  more  necessary  to  me  than 
I  thought;  it  has  proved  to  you  that  you  are  not  only 
my  cashier  but  my  wife.  And  it  has  also  proved  to 
both  of  us  that  as  long  as  there  is  romantic  nonsense 
in  the  world,  respectable  people  will  not  be  safe. 

Elisabeth  (with  a  gentle  smile). 

And  to  think  that  I  was  going  to  desert  you,  just  when 
the  half  monthly  balance  should  be  made  out.  That 
wasn't  common  sense  ? 

Felix  (quite  charmed). 

That's  right.  Now  that  word  shows  me  you  are  quite 
yourself  again.  Give  me  your  hand  and  let  us  make 
peace.  What  are  dreams  indeed  compared  with 
this  pleasant  reality? — Poetry? — hem — a  disease. 
I  know  it.  Have  had  it  myself.  (Takes  her  hand. 
Elisabeth  totters,— from  fatigue  no  doubt.  Felix 
looks  at  her  with  real  affection.  Elisabeth  smiling 
seems  quite  happy.     He  kisses  her  hand,  then  aside, 

35 


THE  REVOLT 

nodding  to  himself).  All  the  same,  I  am  not  sorry 
she  should  be  a  little  humiliated.  (Aloud).  Now 
you  see,  I  am  not  such  a  brute  after  all.  (Kisses  her 
hand  again.  Elisabeth  standing  near  a  chair.  She 
has  become  gloomy  again.  Felix  does  not  notice  it. 
She  seems  lost  in  thought.) 

Elisabeth  (bends  over  him  and  says  in  a  slow  and 

serious  voice). 

Poor  man  !     (She  looks  at  him  with  pity  and  sadness). 


36 


THE  ESCAPE 


37 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Pagnol. 

Old  Matthew. 

LUCIEN. 

Marianne. 

Yvonne. 

Officer  of  Gendarmes. 

Peasants. 

Jailors. 

A  Carter. 


38 


"  Lazare,  veni  foras  ! " — The  Gospel. 

Drawing-room  in  a  country  house.  Night.  On  the  left  in  the 
foreground,  window  with  heavy  curtains.  Balcony  visible. 
Beyond  in  the  half  obscurity,  trees  and  garden.  Doors  at 
back,  and  on  the  left,  another  on  the  right.  On  a  table 
in  middle  of  stage  two  vases  with  flowers.  Sofa,  carpet. 
Near  door  at  back,  piano  with  unlit  candles.  When  the 
curtain  rises,  a  man  is  seen  climbing  over  the  balcony. 
His  hair  is  close  cut,  his  shirt  dirty  and  bloodstained.  He 
is  followed  by  another  man  dressed  like  a  sailor  with  a 
blue  cape,  the  hood  drawn  over  his  head.     Moonlight. 


SCENE  I. 

Pagnol  and  Old  Matthew.  > 

Pagnol  (panting,  looks  about  him). 

Hush !  [Then  goes  to  the  dooi'  at  the  back, 

listening  intently. 

Old  Matthew  (taking  a  flower  out  of  one 
of  the  vases,  in  a  loud  voice). 

Will  the  Viscount  accept  a  rose?  (Then  changing  his 
tone).  Everybody  is  at  the  wedding.  We  are  at 
home,  so  to  speak. 

Pagnol  (anxiously). 

Bother  it !  I  wasn't  careful  enough  on  the  road.  That 
carter,  you  know  ?    That  was  bad  luck  meeting  him. 

39 


THE  ESCAPE 

He  looked  suspicious.  I  should  have  squared  his 
account — without  a  word !  I  was  thinking  about 
you — I  don't  know  what — and  I  let  him  pass. 

Old  Matthew. 

Fool !  {Deep  silence.)  After  all  though,  it  does  not 
much  matter.  You  will  be  safe  at  my  place  before 
the  cannon  lets  the  citizens  of  Rochefort  and  the 
peasants  hereabouts  know  that  the  famous  Pagnol 
alias  "the  Throttler"  has  escaped  after  strangliDg 
his  pal  in  chains,  and  killing  two  calkers  on  the 
quay — A  mere  trifle  ! 

Pagnol. 
All  the  same —  I  am  sorry. 

Old  Matthew. 

Never  mind,  old  chap.  Don't  repent.  You're  as  safe  as 
a  registered  letter. 

Pagnol. 

Oh,  I  mean  on  account  of  the  carter.  I  hope  he  has  not 
followed  me.     I  am  afraid  of  spies  to-night. 

Old  Matthew. 

Don't  think  of  it.  Come  now,  be  cool,  Pagnol.  Don't 
get  soft. 

Pagnol  (suddenly). 
How  many  have  I  to to-night  ? 

Old  Matthew  (reflectively). 

Probably  three. 

40 


THE  ESCAPE 

Pagnol. 
With  those  that  I  have  already 


Old  Matthew  (anxiously). 
Well  ? 

Pagnol. 
That'll  make  six. 

Old  Matthew  (rubbing  his  hands). 

You  remember  my  thumb  trick  all  right  ?     With  that  the 

thing's  done  in  a  jiffy !     Isn't  it  clever  ?     Nick  ! — 

and  it's  done. 

Pagnol. 

Those  three  to-day.     Do  you  think  they  said  a  word  ? 

Old  Matthew. 

It's  true,  you  do  have  a  paw.  Worse  than  a  screw. 
That  thumb  trick  was  a  present  to  me  from  that 
famous  Bordier,  you  know,  alias  "  the  Parson."  I  hid 
him  ten  days  in  my  cellar  near  the  quay.  You'll  be 
there  in  an  hour,  or  hour  and  a  half.  There  I'll  clothe 
you  like  a  gentleman,  give  you  documents,  take  you 
into  my  lighter  and  then  off  to  sea.  You  arrive  in  a 
foreign  land  and  there  you  can  pass  for  anybody  you 
like.  You  can  let  your  mustaches  grow  and  revel 
in  the  Oriental  luxury  of  being  an  honest  man — as 
Bordier  did — sly  cuss  he  was ! 

Pagnol. 
And — with  how  much  ? 

Old  Matthew  (patting  Pagnol  on  the  stomach). 
Twenty  thousand  francs.     Nice  sum,  eh  ? 

41 


THE  ESCAPE 

Pagnol  (pleased). 
Enough  to  retire  from  business,  anyhow. 

Old  Matthew. 

Yes.  That's  what  they  say  !  Enough ! — You  have  lost 
the  habits  of  good  society,  but  once  free,  your  fine 
manners  will  come  back. 

Pagnol. 

Are  we  going  to  do  it  together  ? 

Old  Matthew  (taking  snuff  without  speaking). 

Listen,  Pagnol.  A  good  friend — a  just  enemy — fair  with 
the  spoil.  That's  Old  Matthew !  I  have  helped  you 
to  escape  to-night  from  the  prison  of  Rochefort 
where  you  were  a  convict  for  life — that's  true.  I 
have  brought  you  here,  to  this  snug  country  house. 
It  is  quiet  and  isolated.  You  can  work  here  at  your 
ease — That  is  true  again.  But  that's  enough.  I 
don't  dip  my  hands  in  blood.  I  am  only  a  poor 
sailor  and  wish  to  remain  one — always  ready  to  oblige 
a  friend,  as  everybody  knows.  But  it's  only  just  that 
he  also  should  do  his  share,  eh  ? 

Pagnol  (starting  and  listening). 

I  thought  I  heard  footsteps  in  the  house — No.  I  am 
mistaken. 

Old  Matthew  (looking  at  him  after  a  silence). 

It's  the  wind  in  the  trees.  It's  nothing.  Haven't  I  told 
you,  you  would  hear  the  front  door  when  they  come 
in  from  the  wedding  ? — What's  that  you  are  doing  ? 

42 


THE  ESCAPE 


Pagnol. 


Oh  nothing.  Sharpening  my  knife  on  my  boot.  In  case 
of  an  accident 

Old  Matthew  {laughing). 

Oh  !  Two  years  of  galley-slaving  makes  paste  for  razors 
of  your  heels  does  it  ?  .  .  .  Now  listen.  They  are 
quite  capable  of  not  waiting  till  the  ball  is  over. 
(Aside).  Considering  certain  precautions  I  took,  it's 
very  likely  indeed.  (Takes  more  snuff.)  Well,  M. 
Dumont,  young  Lucien  Dumont — Did  I  tell  you  ? 
— But  his  name  doesn't  matter — He  was  married  this 
morning  to  the  daughter  of  M.  Lebreuil,  Mademoiselle 
Marianne.  Her  father  left  this  house  yesterday  and 
has  made  a  present  of  it  to  the  young  couple.  The 
wedding  is  being  celebrated  in  his  new  home  not  two 
hundred  feet  from  here.  You  see  the  lights  shining 
through  the  trees?  We  heard  the  music,  you  re- 
member, when  we  passed.  (Pensively).  So  he  lives 
there  now,  old  Lebreuil 

Pagnol. 
Well? 

Old  Matthew. 

Nothing,  nothing.  Well  then,  M.  Lucien  and  his  bride 
are  coming  here  to  their  home  to  spend  the  wedding 
night.  Besides  them  there  will  be  only  (points  to 
the  door  on  the  right)  old  Yvonne.  She'll  come  in 
soon.  She  sleeps  in  there.  That  makes  three.  He 
is  only  twenty-two,  she  seventeen.  Just  two  children. 
(Taking  more  snuff.)  People  shouldn't  marry  so 
young.     It's  unhealthy. 

43 


THE  ESCAPE 

Pagnol. 
And  then  ? — I  suppose  they  are  rich,  the  young  couple  ? 

Old  Matthew. 

Stupid  ! — there's  the  dowry  ! — forty  thousand  francs 
neither  more  nor  less  :  Lucien  received  this  morning 
Mile.  Marianne's  fifteen  thousand  francs  and  had 
to  show  his  own  portion  you  know. — Twenty-five 
thousand  francs. — He  brought  the  money  in  a  pocket- 
book  and  then  put  the  two  sums  together. 

Pagnol. 

And — he  carries — all  that  about  him  ? 

Old  Matthew. 

Wait  a  bit — what  a  hurry  you  are  in.  Think  a  little. 
I  can't  swear  of  course  if  he  has  it  in  his  pocket — and 
you  understand — we  had  better  make  sure  of  the 
joke  before  we  laugh,  as  "the  Parson"  used  to  say  ! 
But,  if  he  has  not,  then  it  is  certainly  locked  up 
somewhere  here  in  the  house.  He  came  this  after- 
noon and  examined  the  house  from  garret  to  cellar 
so  I  heard  from  old  Yvonne.  There  was  no  letter, 
and  no  notary  was  employed  !  So  the  money  is 
either  here  or  on  his  person  in  banknotes — in  a 
pocket-book. 

Pagnol. 

Then  how  can  I  know  !  I'm  not  going  to  kill  those  kids 
for  nothing ! 

Old  Matthew. 

Patience,  patience ! — A  newly  married  couple  talks.  They 
make  projects  for  the  future  before  they  go  to  sleep ! 

44 


THE  ESCAPE 

— You  understand  ?  You'll  hide  yourself  and  listen. 
You're  sure  to  hear  something  about  where  they  have 
hidden  the  pile  and  then ! — they'll  give  no  trouble, 
I'll  bet.  (Aside).  Considering  I  poured  some  drops 
of  this  into  their  glasses  at  the  wedding  dinner  where 
I  helped — (showing  a  little  bottle) — Another  present 
from  "the  Parson." — A  newly  married  couple  sleepy  ! 
What  a  good  joke  !  They'll  get  drowsy  all  at  once 
and  Pagnol  will  do  the  rest  with  his  big  thumb. 

Pagnol  (under  his  breath). 
And  after  it's  done,  what  then  ? 

Old  Matthew  (aside). 

There    will    be    no    difficulty.       I    need  not    explain. 

Better  not.     What  do  they  call  it?  Accessory  in 

murder.  No.  No  damned  foolery.  You  never 
know  what  may  happen. 

Pagnol  (looking  at  him). 
What  are  you  mumbling  there,  to  yourself? 

Old  Matthew. 

I  am  thinking  how  you  will  get  away. — Yes,  I  have  it. 
Here  is  old  Yvonne's  room.  I  have  often  offered 
her  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  have  a  talk.  You  see  I 
have  been  maturing  my  plans  for  a  long  time,  and 
if  I  got  you  out  just  at  the  right  moment,  it  was  to 
lose  no  time.     I  am  no  noodle,  I  can  tell  you. 

45 


THE  ESCAPE 

Pagnol. 
Yes,  yes  ! — I  know — you  are  no  noodle. 

Old  Matthew. 

When  it's  done,  you  go  in  there,  to  the  old  woman  :  if 
she  wakes  up — mind,  no  noise ! 

Pagnol. 
There  will  be  no  noise. 

Old  Matthew. 

You're  a  duck.  In  her  room — you  know?  You  push 
open  a  door  to  your  right  and  the  staircase  is  before 
you.  You  go  down  and  get  into  the  cellar,  it's  open. 
There  you  will  see  an  air-hole  giving  on  to  the  fields. 
I'll  wait  for  you  outside.  You  need  only  say  "  hush  " 
and  I'll  throw  in  a  rope.  You  pull  yourself  up  and 
ten  minutes  after  we  are  in  my  den,  dividing  the 
spoil — twenty  thousand  for  me,  twenty  thousand  for 
you.  I'll  hide  you  in  Bordier's  cellar  and  a  little 
later,  off  to  sea !  rich  and  free !  It  is  as  clear  as 
spring  water. 

Pagnol. 

I  couldn't  pass  through  an  air-hole  though ! 

Old  Matthew. 

Yes,  my  love,  you  can.  I  have  loosened  two  big  stones. 
If  we  have  time  we'll  put  them  back  and  stick  them 
in  with  clay,  then  nobody  will  ever  know  how  you 
came  out. 

Pagnol. 

Why  uot  by  the  window  ?  it  would  be  quicker 

46 


THE  ESCAPE 

Old  Matthew. 

Wait  a  bit.  Distingo ! — In  an  hour  or  two  the  ball  is 
over  and  people  will  be  passing  this  way.  They 
mustn't  see  me  in  the  garden.  (Aside).  I  must 
prepare  an  alibi  at  once  for  myself.  You  never 
know! — (Aloud).  In  three  quarters  of  an  hour  I 
am  at  the  air-hole.  On  that  side  the  road  is  lonely 
and  leads  to  the  port.  It  passes  alongside  a  wood 
and  I  can  be  there  without  danger.  Besides,  it's  the 
safest  and  nearest. 

Pagnol  (almost  to  himself). 
Where  can  he  have  put  them,  except  in  the  desk  ? 

Old  Matthew  (looking  at  him). 

Most  likely,  still  we  don't  know.  Listen  and  make 
sure.  A  bold  front,  a  good  scent  and  a  firm  wrist. 
All  depends  on  that.  I  see  you  understand,  count 
on  an  old  chap  who  always  keeps  his  word.  (Putting 
his  leg  over  the  balcony).  Ta-ta — I'll  see  you  at  the 
air-hole.  [Disappears. 

SCENE  II. 
Pagnol  alone. 

Pagnol. 

Hallo,  you're  going  ?  (Stopping  short).  I  felt  as  if  I 
was  being  tugged  by  my  leg.  (Looking  round). 
Alone! — This  morning  we  were  two  and  I  wasn't 
afraid.  This  then  is  freedom  !  (Breathing  hard).  I 
feel  as  if  my  chain  had  got  into  my  lungs. — Yes,  in 

47 


THE  ESCAPE 

an  hour,  the  wide  sea ! — Oh  the  sea — I  love  the  sea  ! 
And  to  be  forced  to  do  like  a  wild  beast,  to  be  free 
— to  enjoy  the  woods,  the  wind,  the  hills,  and  the 
sea !  It  is  different  with  the  bosses.  For  them  it's  all 
jolly.  They  have  no  troubles  and  don't  care.  They 
only  look  after  themselves — I'm  going  to  nab  two  of 
them  anyhow! — And  God  will  reward  me  for  it. 
{Goes  towards  the  table).  Flowers  for  the  bride  ! — 
Flowers  ?  I  had  quite  forgotten  about  them.  They 
don't  grow  in  the  place  I  come  from.  (Silence.) 
Love! — and  to  think  that  I  too  have  known  what 
love  is  !  (Pulling  a  convict's  cap  out  of  his  pocket). 
And  here  is  the  proof  of  it.  (Walking  excitedly 
about  the  drawing-room.)  Love ! — If  I  had  been 
before  the  registrar  they  wouldn't  have  sent  me 
to  Rochefort  when  I  surprised  the  two  together 
and  slipped  them  off  into  the  other  world.  And 
my  advocate,  who  came  to  the  prison  smoking  his 
cigarette,  said  it  was  merely  a  question  of  form. 
Oh  my  advocate  ! — such  a  well-shaven  young  man ! 
— While  he  was  talking  to  me,  it  seemed  as  if  my 
chains,  the  guillotine,  God,  the  devil  and  all  the  rest 

were  dancing  in  the  clouds  of  his  smoke 

Curse  it !  Are  those  little  fools  never  coming  ?  You'll 
have  a  nice  hug,  my  pets,  and  it's  I  who  will  be  the 
registrar  to-night.  This  thing  on  my  head  is  not  a 
night- cap  to  go  to  bed  with.  (Putting  on  the  cap 
and  lifting  his  head).  I  have  had  enough  of  that 
life,  and  if  I  can  only  live  in  blood,  it's  no  fault  of 
mine.  (Noise  of  the  front  door  opening.)  Somebody 
(grins) — Oh  yes  !  the  sofa.  (Hides  under  it.  Yvonne 
enters.)     It's  the  old  woman ! 

48 


THE  ESCAPE 


SCENE  III. 


[Pagnol  hidden,  Yvonne  enters  candle  in  hand.  The 
scene  lights  up  slightly.  She  shades  the  candle 
with  one  hand  against  the  draught. 

Yvonne  {joyful,  in  grand  attire). 

So  now  they  are  married,  the  young  ones.  My  little 
Marianne  !  How  pretty  she  looked  under  her  veil ! 
And  now  she  is  a  Madame.  How  sweet  they  both 
are !  And  M.  Lucien,  he  said  to  me  "  Go  home 
quickly,  Yvonne.  We  shall  get  away  in  a  few 
minutes."  I  am  sure  they  are  at  my  heels — Their 
room  ?  Everything  ready  and  all  in  blue ! — I  don't 
know  why  it  makes  me  think  of  my  poor  Chariot ! 

Pagnol  {starting.     Aside,  under  the  sofa). 

Fool  that  I  am!     I  am  still  thinking  I  am  over  there. 

And  I  thought  she  was  speaking  of 

[He  makes  a  motion  of  cutting  off  his  head. 

Yvonne  (putting  the  furniture  in  order). 

Never  mind,  Yvonne  !  Let  us  go  to  bed.  It  is  the  young 
ones  who  will  stay  up  to-night.  To-morrow  morning 
I  shall  be  up  betimes  and  prepare  their  breakfast — 
But  it  must  not  become  a  habit.  Dear  little  tinners ! 
Won't  they  be  happy! — {going  to  the  window  and 
arranging  the  curtains).  It's  rather  cold  to-night. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  since  M.  Lebreuil  left  it 
seems  lonely  like  here.  We  shall  have  to  keep  a  dog. 
Then  it's  the  country,  and  when  I  think  that  only 
d  49 


THE  ESCAPE 

a  few  miles  off  in  town,  there  are Only  to  think 

of  it  makes  me  shudder.     Now,  to  bed.     Everything 
in  good  order  ?     (Looking  round  with  satisfaction). 

There 

Pagnol  (aside). 

A  voice  too  much.     She  is  one  to  cry  out. 

[Creeps  softly  behind  her. 

Yvonne  (opening  her  door). 

Good  night,  my  children  ! 

[The  candle  falls,  Pagnol  has  stood  up  and  in  horrible 
earnest  pushes  Yvonne  into  her  room.  The  noise 
of  a  falling  chair,  but  no  cry.  After  a  few 
moments  Pagnol  re-enters  and  shuts  the  door 
behind  him. 

SCENE  IV. 

Pagnol. 

Pagnol  (he  looks  pale  and  anxious,  his 
features  contracted). 

Amen. — It  has  made  me  quite  sick,  this  work  !  .  .  .  After 
all,  it  is  perhaps  better  for  the  old  woman.  The 
young  ones  would  have  treated  her  like  a  dog,  now 
they  are  happy.  (Gloomily).  Yes — she  wanted  to 
bite  me  already.  (Pushes  the  sofa  mechanically  in 
front  of  the  door  of  Yvonne's  room.  Sound  of  the 
front  door  being  closed.)  There  they  are ! — Curse  it ! 
— I  smell  blood  !  Rich !  saved !  free !  In  an  hour ! 
— first  find  where  the  hoard  is,  and  then ! 

[Hides  behind  curtains,  knife  in  hand. 
50 


THE  ESCAPE 


SCENE  V. 

[Pagnol,  behind  curtain.  Enter  Lucien  and 
Marianne  laughing  like  children,  Lucien  with 
a  lighted  candle.  He  is  in  his  wedding  clothes. 
Flowers  in  his  button-hole.  Marianne  all  in 
white  with  orange  blossoms  and  veil.  She  comes 
forward  to  the  right  of  the  table. 

Lucien  (setting  the  candlestick  on  the  table,  coming 
forward  to  the  left  and  taking  Marianne's  hand). 

At  length ! 

Marianne. 

Lucien !  my  dear,  dear  Lucien ! 

[He  draws  her  towards  a  stool  in  front  of  table, 
seats  himself  at  Iter  feet  and  looks  at  her. 

Lucien. 
Let  us  remain  like  this. 

Marianne. 

To  live  together  for  ever !     Lucien,  do  you  realise  it  ? 

Lucien. 
My  wife ! 

Marianne. 

So  much  happiness  makes  me  wish  to  die. 

Lucien. 
Yes,  live — or  die,  anything  you  like — only  with  you. 

Marianne. 

Dearest ! 

51 


THE  ESCAPE 

LUCIEN. 

Your  hair  smells  so  sweet.     What  is  it  ? 

Marianne. 
The  orange  blossoms. 

Luoien  {enraptured). 


You  think  so  ? 
What  bosh ! 
Yes,  sir. 


Pagnol  (aside). 
Marianne  (smiling). 


Lucien. 

Let  me  try  to  realise  you  are  there. 

Pagnol  (aside). 
Are  they  never  going  to  speak  of  the  shiners  ? 

Lucien. 
If  you  knew,  Marianne,  how  I  have  longed  for  this  moment. 

Marianne. 

And  I,  have  I  not?  All  day  long  I  have  thought  of 
you :  Now  he  is  coming  home,  now  he  is  working. 
I  hope  he  will  not  tire  himself.  If  he  were  to  fall 
ill !  And  I  contrived  to  find  out  many  things  with- 
out showing  how.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You 
have  tears  in  your  eyes.  My  darling,  have  I  said 
anything  to  hurt  you  ? 

Lucien. 
I  love  you ! 

52 


THE  ESCAPE 

Marianne  (goes  and  leans  over  the  balcony.     Lucien 

follows  her). 

What  a  lovely  night :  I  can  see  the  lights  on  the  water. 
What  joy  to  love  one  another!  (Turning  to  Lucieri) 
In  summer  when  we  go  to  the  shore  we {inter- 
rupting herself).  Look  !  I  thought  I  saw  the  curtain 
move. 

Lucien. 

It  is  the  shadow  of  the  candlestick  on  the  wall.  The  soft 
wind  played  in  your  veil,  and  made  the  light  unsteady. 
How  lovely  you  are,  Marianne.  (She  passes  Jier  hand 
over  her  foreliead.  He  takes  her  into  his  arms.) 
Are  you  tired  ? 

Marianne. 

No  ;  I  have  only  danced  with  you.  But  I  feel  so  strange 
—  I   can   hardly  speak.      It's   nothing — too  much 

happiness,   perhaps (languidly    turning  again 

to  the  window).     Oh,  you  dear  flowers  in  the  garden 

of  our   home,  I   bless  you   for  the   happiness 

(A  distant  flash  of  light  and  boom  of  a  cannon.) 
What's  that?  A  cannon?  From  the  town  at  ten 
at  night !     Is  a  prince  expected  ? 

Lucien. 
No,  a  prisoner  must  have  escaped. 

Marianne  (folding  her  hands). 

Oh,  the  poor  man.  I  do  hope  they  will  not  catch  him. 
(Silence.)  To  think  that  to-night,  so  near  our  joy 
someone  exists,  so  unhappy,  so  desperate. 

53 


THE  ESCAPE 

Lucien  {thoughtfully). 
The  poor  fellow  is  perhaps  hidden  under  the  prison  floor, 
half  drowned. 

Marianne  {tears  in  her  eyes). 

Perhaps  he  is  even  innocent! — We  ought  always  to 
forgive,  for  the  judges  can  but  punish.  The  poor 
man  !     How  much  he  is  to  be  pitied. 

Lucien. 

Yes,  to  save  and  to  pity  is  for  angels  like  you— Oh ! 
I  was  forgetting.  Since  this  morning — {opens  a 
pocket-book  and  takes  out  banknotes).  This  is  our 
whole  fortune,  Marianne,  I  should  have  handed  it 
over  at  once  to  our  old  friend,  Lawyer  Dubois, 
but  then  I  should  have  had  to  leave  you,  and 
I  couldn't  do  that. 

Marianne. 

You  will  show  them  to-morrow  to  Yvonne,  won't  you, 
Lucien?  How  glad  she  will  be!  We  must  take 
great  care  of  her  and  not  let  her  want  for  anything. 
My  good  old  nurse  ! 

Lucien. 

Dearest  wife  ! 

Marianne. 

You'll  see  how  well  we  shall  arrange  our  lives !  There 
are  so  many  poor  people  hereabouts,  so  very,  very 
poor.  We  must  make  the  bread  go  a  long  way. 
We  shall  always  be  rich  enough — and  then  there 
are  so  many  who  do   not  love   one   another.     We 

54 


THE  ESCAPE 

could  even  go  without   something.      There   would 
always  remain  a  good  share. 

Lucien. 
Yes,  indeed !     The  best ! 

Marianne. 

I  have  but  one  thought — you,  and  that  is  all  I  want — 
But  I  don't  know  what  makes  me  shudder.  I  feel 
as  if  at  this  moment  we  were  in  great  danger.  Now 
listen  to  what  I  say ;  those  that  do  not  pray  are 
never  happy.     Let  us  think  of  God  together. 

Lucien  (smiling). 
If  you  wish  it,  dear  heart ! 

Marianne  (kneeling  down  drowsily,  struggling 
against  effects  of  the  narcotic). 

Our  Father  in  heaven  who  has  blest  us,  have  pity  on  the 
poor  miserable  man  who  is  dying  of  cold  and  hunger, 
under  the  prison  floor — half  drowned !  Help  him  to 
find  a  heart  which  shall  not  repel  him,  comfort  him 
and  give  him  shelter  and  hope !  Make  him  to  weep 
if  he  should  be  guilty  and  forgive  in  his  turn !  He 
is  our  brother,  your  child  like  ourselves,  let  him  be 

saved  here, (her  head  drops  on  Lucien  s  shoulder) 

and  hereafter! 

Lucien  (softly). 

If  the  one  for  whom  you  have  prayed  were  here,  I  should 
save  him.  (Trying  to  lead  her  towards  the  door  to 
the  right).     My  little  wife,  my  love,  come.     (Stop- 

55 


THE  ESCAPE 

ping  short).      But  what   is  the  matter   with  me? 
How  drowsy  I  feel ! 

Marianne  (rises,  tottering). 

I  don't  know — I  can't  see  you.     My  eyes  are  closing — 

Lucien !    (They  take  afeiv  steps  with  half  closed  eyes. 

Beaching  the  sofa  near  the  door  they  drop  on  to  it, 

and  sit  side  by  side).     I  love  you  ! 

[Puts  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  goes   to  sleep 

with  her  head  on  his  chest. 

Lucien. 
Marianne ! 

[Tries  to  get  up;    totters  and  falls  back  on   the 
cushions.    Both  fall  asleep  and  remain  motionless. 


SCENE  VI. 

[Lucien,  Marianne   asleep.     Pagnol,  coming  from 
behind  the  curtain. 

Pagnol. 

No,  none  of  that  for  me.  I  don't  like  to  be  wheedled. 
(Between  his  teeth).  Brats!  I  expected  cuffing, 
cries,  kicks — I  hate  cries  and  strike  to  shut  them 
up.  But — when  they  are  sleeping  like  lambs !  I 
ought  to  be  glad — yet  it  puts  me  out  of  humour. 
Drat  it !  That  there  should  be  the  like  of  them ! 
These  are  not  a  man  and  a  woman.  They're  two 
little  saints — just !  I  don't  like  this  work  !  (Scratch- 
ing his  head,  haggard,  crumpling  his  green  cap  in  per- 
plexity).    If  they  were  a  couple  of  great  fat  bosses, 

56 


THE  ESCAPE 

with  fine  round  stomachs,  watch  chains  and  seals 
dangling  over  them,  with  a  look  about  them  of  good 
advice  to  the  starving  !  I  like  the  bosses,  they  give 
me  an  appetite.  {Grinding  his  teeth).  A  juryman! 
(Smacks  his  lips  and  rolls  his  eyes).  A  dainty  bit ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  a  dainty  bit  indeed !  {After  a  moment). 
I  didn't  think  they  would  be  like  that — these  kids ! 
— They  have  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head  and  no 
mistake — I  don't  understand  all  they  said,  but  that's 
what  it  is  all  the  same.  {Seeing  the  banknotes  on  the 
ground).  What  children  !  They  don't  hide !  They 
have  no  thought  of  ruin. — Still  take  it  I  must.  If 
they  were  only  in  a  desk  with  drawers  and  locks ! 
But  like  this — there's  no  merit!  Is  there  merit  or 
is  there  not  ?  There  is  none.  {Suddenly).  Pooh ! 
they  are  not  galley-slaves !  Anybody  can  be  good 
at  that  rate.  Besides  they  can  work.  What's  the 
fiiss  !  I  can't  work :  I  wasn't  taught  Latin  like  the 
priests.  I  have  had  no  education — they  have  a 
business!  All  the  same,  I'm  glad  I  have  not  to 
touch  them.  {Bends  down,  to  pick  up  the  notes 
and  intently  watches  their  sleep,  his  face  above  theirs. 
His  arm  drops  as  he  looks  at  Marianne  and  Lucien.) 
They  are  good  to  look  at!  So  young! — Yes,  and 
good — Good  as  doves.  They  love  each  other  quietly 
and  go  to  sleep  !  I  don't  know  what  they  have  done 
to  me  but — I'm  afraid! — No! — I  won't  have  their 
money !  {Mechanically  staffs  the  money  into  Mari- 
annes pocket.  Silence.)  Now,  let's  cut.  There  are 
other  bosses  in  the  world  besides  these.  I'll  spin  old 
Matthew  a  yarn.  I'll  tell  him  they  did  not  speak  of 
the  money  and  that  I  shall  do  other  work  for  him. 

57 


THE  ESCAPE 

He'll  have  to  hide  me  all  the  same. — As  for  his 
twenty  thousand  counters,  he  can  lump  it  if  he 
doesn't  like  it.  I'll  be  off.  Of  us  three,  I  may  be  the 
luckiest  after  all.  Good-bye,  my  pets — I  have  heard 
your  babble.  You  are  nice  and  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
you ;  besides  there  would  be  no  merit  in  it,  and  I 
won't.  It's  lucky  I  can't  read,  that  I'm  not  a  notary 
like  my  pal  was.  He  would  have  done  it. — He  was 
a  sly  rogue  :  he  did  know  a  thing  or  two.  I  don't — 
Now  to  the  air-hole.  (Looks  about.)  It's  easily  said 
— let's  cut — but  how? — (Looking  at  Marianne  and 
Lucien).  Confound  it !  The  door  is  there !  (Reflec- 
tively after  a  moment  of  consternation).  Now,  what 
made  me  push  the  sofa  they  are  sleeping  on  in  front 
of  that  door,  as  if  on  purpose  to  be  tempted  ?  They 
prevent  me  from  going — This  is  the  way  to  the  air- 
hole. {Knitting  his  brows).  Wait  a  bit !  I  have  to 
save  my  skin. — It's  rot  all  this.  I  don't  mind  sneak- 
ing off  for  once,  but  I  won't  be  a (He  reflects). 

Can't  help  it — must  wake  them — I  shall  say  :  Don't 
cry  out.  I  am  a  poor  wretch.  I'm  the  one  they're 
after.     They  aren't  turnkeys — they  won't  split,  and 

I (Stops    short).      Hang    it ! — the    old    woman 

— They  mustn't  go  in  there.  They'd  hate  me.  ( Walks 
towards  the  windoiv.  A  cry  as  of  a  sea  gull.)  Ah ! 
That  must  be  old  Matthew  whistling  in  the  distance. 
(Pagnol  remains  motionless,  trembling,  livid.)  There 
they  are !  The  police,  jailors,  gendarmes,  peasants ! 
— All  after  the  convict.  Oh,  the  beasts ! — It's  the 
carter — it's  he  sold  me !  (  Violently  places  the  candle- 
stick on  the  table.)     No  time  to  spare — Or  perhaps 

if (Reflects,    then    with    decision    goes    to    the 

58 


THE  ESCAPE 

window.  Bends  over  listening,  then  gloomily). 
They  are  whispering  in  the  garden.  (Stops  and  looks 
about).  The  chimney  ?  No  go.  They  would  light  a 
fire  and  get  on  the  roof.  Besides  they  have  their  blood 
hounds.  (Looking  at  the  door  behind  the  sofa).  The 
only  way  is  by  this  door.  The  air-hole  is  my  only 
hope.  (Looking  at  the  sleeping  couple).  There  is 
nothing  for  it.  They  must  be  hushed ;  I  have  always 
been  unlucky — Well,  they  have  had  their  day ;  and 
I  must  pass  over  their  bodies  to  save  my  head. 
(Looks  at  them.  Trembling,  opens  his  knife,  then 
talking  fast  and  wildly).  I  see  the  gallows  before 
my  eyes.  All  is  red.  The  straw !  The  priest  in 
the  cart !  The  hour  has  come.  (Sounds  of  footsteps 
and  swords  on  the  staircase ;  he  starts  and  grips  his 
knife).  Worse  luck !  it's  all  over !  (Suddenly, 
haggard,  and  with  a  terrible  look  throws  down  his 
knife  and  folds  his  arms).  Well  then — That's  it — I 
shan't  kill  them.  (Remains  staring,  while  the  door 
is  burst  open  with  the  butt-ends  of  muskets.  Con- 
fusion of  voices  outside.)  He  is  in  there — quick, 
quick !     He's  there.     Break  open  the  door ! 

[Door  gives  way. 

SCENE  VII. 

[Lucien,  Marianne,  Pagnol,  officer  of  gendarmes, 
peasants  with  pitchforks.  A  carter,  gendarmes 
with  drawn  swords  climbing  in  through  the 
window.  People  armed  with  sticks.  Jailors 
with  pistols.     Old  Matthew  gagged  and  in  chains. 

The  Carter. 
There  he  is ! 

59 


THE  ESCAPE 

Officer. 

In  the  name  of  the  law,  don't  move.  (Seizes  the  convict 
by  the  collar.)  Jerome  Anthony  Pagnol  alias  "  the 
Throttler,"  convict  for  life  and  murderer,  you  will 
return  with  us  to  the  prison  of  Rochefort. 

The  Carter. 

You  know  what  awaits  you  there.  (Makes  the  motion  of 
cutting  off  the  head.  Pagnol  motionless  and  in 
thought.     His  hands  are  taken  hold  of.) 

Lucien  (waking). 

What  is  it  ? — Marianne,  good  heavens ! 

[He  takes  his  wife  in  his  arms.     Marianne  wakes. 

Marianne. 

Lucien!  What — what  is  it?  (Looks  round  terrified.) 
Oh !  I  am  frightened  !  I  am  frightened  ! 

A  Jailor. 
Well  ? — How  do  you  like  being  caught  by  me  ?     Eh  ? 

Carter  (hitting  Pagnol  with  his  fist). 
Take  that,  you  dog !  [Marianne  swoons. 

The  Carter. 

I  had  a  notion  he  was  a  runaway  when  I  passed  him  in 

my  cart. 

Officer. 

Come  now,  let  him  alone.  It's  a  good  thing  we  are  in 
time  !  (Pulling  out  his  watch).  What's  the  time  ? 
— 11.37.     We  shall  be  back  about  midnight. 

60 


THE  ESCAPE 

People. 
Drown  him,  the  murderer ! 

Peasants. 

Kill  him ! 

Officer  (knitting  his  brows). 

Stop  that.  You  hold  your  tongues,  or  I'll  handcuff  the 
whole  lot  of  you.  You  know  he'll  lose  his  head — 
But  till  then  he  is  under  the  protection  of  the  law. 
— Respect  the  law !  [Deep  silence. 

Pagnol  {aside,  while  being  handcuffed). 

It's  queer! — but — it  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  now  that  I 
was  escaping. 


61 


PRINTED  BT 

TCRNBULL   AKD  SPEARS, 

EDINBURGH 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


gHTOKD^R* 


£P; 


!  i  d 

t«7D  LOW1 

RtC'OtD'URL 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


T^     E5S.FB10' 


, 


otMnw 


-K0 


THE  LISRARV 


II  MM  Mill   MM    I 

3   1158  00105  7693 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  698  500    6 


